


The Concept of Causality

by KoSidola



Category: Berserk (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Drama & Romance, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Friendship, Golden Age, Legal Drama, Love, Love Triangles, Romance, Sex, Unrequited Love, casca/griffith, casca/guts, guts/griffith - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:21:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23653018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoSidola/pseuds/KoSidola
Summary: Griffith, Casca and Guts find themselves in difficult situations - professionally, ethically, emotionally, sexually -  as they navigate triumphs and setbacks as young attorneys in the big city.POV: Casca's though I may expand it to include Guts' depending on where things go.
Relationships: Casca/Griffith (Berserk), Casca/Guts (Berserk)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

Abruptly interrupted by raised voices, I twirl the chewed stem of a grape between my fingertips and exhale stale air I'd been passing from cheek to cheek. Pressing my feet into the floor, I exit the cave of my well-used desk and chair and make my way into the hall to put eyes on the commotion, ziploc of grapes in hand.  


"-- it's exhausting, I'm exhausted!" I catch the end of a woman's retort, and see the brown of her chopped hair shaking with emphasis as she stands in the doorway of the office at the end of the hall.

"Exactly," replies Griffith's cool voice, though louder and more emotive than usual, it carries to fill the usually quiet space.  
"That's exactly why I thought we were keeping this casual," He continues, clipped.  
"Griffith," the woman says, I notice a slight twang to her voice. "It's been almost a year. All I want is to revisit the topic and immediately you cut me out of your life. You think I want to come here and make a fool of myself in front of your staff?"

I spot Judeau's raised eyebrows, his head protruding from the office across from mine. We nod to acknowledge each other as fellow audience members to, what we've now identified, a rare peek into Griffith's personal life.

"I'm trying to empathize with you, Charlotte," Griffith pauses before continuing more tenderly, "But, I never promised anything. You know I can't promise you anything."

My eyes become unfocused as I take in his words. They're not directed at me, but they sit heavily in my chest nevertheless. As a distraction, I pull a grape from my bag and throw it at Judeau's unsuspecting face. He jumps in surprise, barely catching it against his chest, before grinning at me and popping it into his mouth. I cross my eyes at him and he grins again, grape viscera between his teeth. As I turn my attention back down the hall, I see Judeau's eyes sober knowingly at me. I swallow and step back to hide slightly as the woman backs out of Griffith's office, shaking her head in blatant disbelief.

"You say that, but you've never given me the slightest inkling as to why. I'm busy too, Griffith. My work's important too." She sighs, sounding almost resigned, "But that doesn't mean that I want the time I've invested in us to mean nothing. It feels childish and dishonest — things I've never been much good at."

I see Griffith step into the doorway. He holds the door frame lightly and captures the woman's hand as she backs away. Their eyes lock and they stand in strained silence for a few moments. He opens his mouth to speak, his lips making shape to something before closing again. Then it happens, and I know she sees it because I witness it clearly, even from a distance. His eyes lose the touch of warmth and understanding they must've held during her appeal and slowly go vacant. Their open blue making the shift all the more apparent and affecting. She jerks her hand from his as if the vacuum of his expression could be contagious.

"I'm sorry," He murmurs.  
"Not enough," she spits out as she turns abruptly, making her way to the door.

Walking with purpose, she passes me and I recognize her instantly. Charlotte Rhodan's face, even distraught, is just as striking in person as it is on the news. My eyes follow her before pivoting back to Griffith to find him watching her exit as well. His gaze lingers, unblinking, for a moment before he backs into his office and deftly closes the door.

"Casca," Judeau whispers from his office.  
"Uh-huh?" I say without moving my eyes from where Griffith stood.  
"Lunch in a few?" He asks.  
"Yeah," I say absently, "Sure."


	2. Chapter 2

"So you hear that lawyer who's trying to leave Gennon & Perkins is coming in for a second interview next week?" Judeau asks over his steaming bowl of pho.  
"Mhmm," I say, my mouth full of noodles.  
"I hear things have gotten pretty messy over there after Luca Gennon disappeared. Though I can't say I'm surprised."  
"Hmmph," I respond, waving the petite waitress over.  
"You going to use any actual words, Cas?"  
"I'm eating," I whine as I gesture to my mouth dramatically.

The waitress begrudgingly stalks to our table in her flip flops and socks — though I swear I've seen her work barefoot before, so this seems polished by contrast. I assume she's the daughter of the owner whose face smiles brightly from age-old news articles plastered on the restaurant's mint green walls. Why else would they keep her if she doesn't wear shoes? Classic nepotism. I continue my internal dialogue until Judeau finally interrupts.

"You think Griffith will really hire him? He could take a lot of our work. It's not like G & P will let him steal their clients."

The waitress glares at me as I choke down my mouthful and Judeau waits patiently.

"Cream puffs please," I request as respectfully as I can with broth on my chin.  
She sets off wordlessly and I turn back to Judeau, realizing I'm not the most enjoyable lunch companion at present.  
"You distracted, Cas?" Judeau eyes me seriously.  
I put down my chopsticks. "A little. I'm sorry."

Judeau pushes the dirty blonde hair from his forehead and leans back into the beige bench of our booth, sighing.

"You think the boss is okay?" He asks after a beat.  
"I'm really not sure."   
"Charlotte Rhodan, aye? What a catch. Not to mention, it sounded like they were seeing each other for quite a while. I had no idea."  
"Me either." I say, nodding appreciatively as a tray of partially frozen cream puffs arrives.  
"Messy break up with a senator. Nice one, Griff." Judeau remarks sarcastically.  
"It's certainly not the most strategic thing he's ever done," I add.

"I hope it means he'll treat the office to a catered lunch soon. He always seems to do that when he's emotionally distressed. Although —," he emphasizes, "I cannot eat one more thing from that goddamn Indian Palace place or whatever it's called."  
I nod in conspiratory agreement and choke out a laugh.  
"We ate that same Saag Paneer every day for two fucking weeks after the story about Luca Gennon came out — creamed spinach was coming out of everyone's ass," Judeau muses joylessly.  
"It's been almost six months and I'm still not pooping straight" I interject, hand coming to my face in an attempt to hide my mouth full of cream puff as more choked laughter escapes.

Judeau makes a disgusted face before letting out a laugh as well.

Our smiles cool and we continue eating in silence for a few minutes.

"Of course — I imagine it's hard to lose a longtime mentor and colleague like that," Judeau says, staring into his nearly empty bowl.  


"I imagine it's devastating," I say quietly.

\---

It's almost nine in the evening and the office is deserted when I finally decide to shut down my computer and head to my apartment. I throw on my worn trench and grab my briefcase when I hear a strange clinking outside the door. I straighten up when Griffith pushes in, a bottle of bourbon and two cut glasses in hand.

"Well we made it through another week, Cas," He says, his words already sounding warm from alcohol.  
"You should knock, Griffith," I assert, stone faced.

He looks up at me with slurred surprise, a bit taken aback by my stoic tone. Then the corners of his mouth lift and a smirk colors his startlingly beautiful patrician features.

"Immense apologies, my dear counselor," he says, bowing deeply as he awkwardly backs out of my office, juggling glassware, and promptly shuts the door.  
I put down my briefcase and round my desk, shifting to lean against it as I cross my arms.

"Griffith," I call, a mix of exhaustion and amusement in my voice.  
Two short knocks are his only reply.  
"Griffith," I groan. "Yes, I need a drink. Hurry up."

The door swings open and Griffith stands there, smirk still in place.

"As cold as a fish you are, Cas," he says, teasingly, from the hallway.  
"I'm sure some may say that of you."  
"Many, no doubt," he states, his smirk briefly dropping before reforming as he strides in. He kicks off his oxfords and pours a few fingers of bourbon in each glass.  
He hands me a drink before toasting.

"Another one for the books here at Wayson Law Offices," he takes a sip and settles into one of the oak and leather chairs adjacent to my desk. He tucks one long leg under the other and arches his head back to gaze hazily at the ceiling.  
"Another one," I parrot and take a deep sip, I let my shoes fall haphazardly to the floor and allow myself to relax along with him.

"This was a nice Friday tradition. Why did we stop?" He finally asks.  
"We got too busy, I suppose," I murmur, "and it seems you started dating a senator."  
"Always straight to the point, Ms. Richards."  
"A quality I believe you appreciate, Mr. Wayson."  


He exhales audibly in response, seemingly reflective.

"Well shit," he exclaims, bringing a hand to his forehead and pushing the heel of it down to his jaw in exasperation, "embarrassing — what a display."  
"Sounds like you didn't give her much of an option." I offer and take another sip of my bourbon, watching it swirl mesmerizingly in my glass.

"I —" Griffith's eyebrows pull together, "well — she was so terribly rich in all the ways I'm not."  
"Griffith," I say flatly, tilting my head to one side, "What does that even mean?"

He lowers his chin to face me and drains his glass, letting the rim push at the meat of his bottom lip.

"You seem disappointed in me," he narrows his eyes, "but I think you're self projecting. Experiencing my personal failings as your own because that's the only way you can understand them — possessing courage to acknowledge them in the perceived actions of another actor on another stage."

Criticism from Griffith is nothing new, though this quick and overly embellished theory seems elicited more by alcohol and emotional turmoil than by his usual sharp perception. We've always been hard on each other and it's very much the kind of friction that draws us both in instead of pushing us away. Even though he's my boss, we are colleagues with years of shared respect and unequivocal honesty between us. Well, with one small exception on my part.

"All I asked you to do was clarify your statement," I follow up in the same flat tone, not taking his bait to evade my question.

Griffith doesn't respond immediately. He looks around my office, taking in the papers and books that dominate my desk and shelves, noting the eclectic collection of nearly dead plants that line my window. He eyes the clean shirts hanging by my door and the extra pair of professional shoes I keep underneath. His attention swings back to my desk where a photograph of my mother, degraded by the sun, sits beside my phone. Finally, his eyes settle on my hips, seated on the desk, before traveling slowly up the panel of my clean white shirt to rest along my collarbone.

I'm surprised when, a moment later, his gaze connects with my own, his expression imploringly open, as if he's finally decided to be present. It's disarmingly stunning and has a frustrating and immediate effect on me.

"I think you know what I mean, Cas. Maybe more than anyone" he considers softly, his voice a bit rough, as he pushes his lean body up from the chair to place his glass on the desk beside me. 

He doesn't pour himself another drink as I expect, but shifts directly in front of me, leaning forward and placing a hand by my side to cage me in with his presence. Though my immediate instinct is to shy from his closeness, I sit rigidly, not wanting him to see me flinch and ashamedly electrified by his proximity. I force myself to maintain eye contact, pulse racing. Somehow I know that if I look away, I'll lose any ground I have within our complex power dynamic.

His mouth hovers above mine suspensefully. The smell of citrus and bourbon washes over me as his warm breath brushes my lips.

"Tell me you understand." he whispers, eyelids lowered seductively.

I open my mouth to respond, but am quickly silenced when he separates my legs aggressively with his knee and his mouth descends on mine.


	3. Chapter 3

"Tell me you understand." he whispers, eyelids lowered seductively.

I open my mouth to respond, but am quickly silenced when he separates my legs aggressively with his knee and his mouth descends on mine.

\---

I don't react immediately, shock from this development paralyzes my brain and my eyes remain wide in disbelief. Griffith's lips move languidly over mine and his fingers push through the hair at the nape of my neck. Noticing my stiff posture, he firmly fists the hair he's collected, forcing my head back, and bites at my bottom lip.

His bite jolts me back to my body and my shock slowly gives way to the tide of tension between us. My eyelids flutter closed as confusion dissipates and all I'm left with is incredible need. Insatiable need.

My mouth instinctively opens to his and our tongues and teeth intertwine erotically. I move a shaking hand to grasp at his collar, pulling him in even closer, and let out a short gasp as the intensity of our kiss deepens.

Out of necessity, I'd labeled this disturbingly beautiful, magnetic, and driven man as completely untouchable, leaving me few resources to combat the power of his heated attention as it focuses on me now. A small alarm in my head signals that something is off here, but the urgency of my desire buries reflection swiftly.

Griffith, encouraged by my response, presses the thigh he's fixed between my legs in suggestively, making contact with my core. My body responds reflexively, hungry for more friction, Griffith lets out a short satisfied grunt and our kiss takes on a rhythm. He pushes me further onto the desk, papers crinkle and my stapler digs uncomfortably into my back — the discomfort somehow welcome.

Relinquishing my hair, Griffith grips my chin between his thumb and forefinger and, breaking the connection of our mouths, we breathe shallowly and intimately against each other as his hips maintain a slow and grinding rhythm with mine. He tips my chin to the right, revealing my neck, where he scrapes his teeth and places slow presses from his lips.

I drag my hands up the lean muscle of his arms and push them into his pale hair, pressing his face to my neck and collarbone in fervor.

Our exhales grow louder as Griffith's fingertips trail from my chin and slowly down the column of my neck to fondle my breast through my shirt. Pushing against the strength of my arms, he raises his head enough to catch an earlobe between his teeth, pulling gently.

I cry out at the pleasure of it and he releases my lobe from his mouth to whisper against my ear.

"I know you understand. You and me, Cas, we're broken in the same way,"

As soon as the words leave his lips, everything stops. My mind lurches and I realize I've made a grave and horrible mistake.

Forcing his shoulders back I look up at him with terror, managing to work my mouth.

"What?" I rasp lamely, pulse still racing.

Still in the moment, Griffith, attempts to continue our momentum. When my arms halt him further, he looks through his long lashes down at me, bewildered.

"We're the same, Cas," he repeats, a small smile — an attempt at comfort — forms on his lips. It's not comforting, it's misplaced and heartbreaking.

"This is wrong. This is so wrong, Griffith," I push myself up, forcing him off me.

"You're hurting and you're drunk and — and you've somehow so misunderstood me," I accuse with pain, gesturing to my chest, hot tears forming behind my eyes.

"And here we are, two friends taking advantage of each other. I'm so disappointed in us, we deserve so much better."

I move to get up, grabbing my briefcase and my shoes, but Griffith's hand grasps my arm tightly. The parallel with this morning, his hand gripping Charlotte Rhodan's, isn't lost on me.

"Casca -- I," Griffith's eyes are pleading, his disheveled hair, clothes, and swollen lips, bewitching. It takes all my strength to pull my hand out of his grasp and look at him with the feeling and the understanding we both crave.

"Go home, Griffith," I say as steadily as I can, placing a soft hand on his shoulder and looking down at the space between us.

"Go home and actually give yourself a weekend off. Go take care of yourself and we'll talk later. We'll address this later."

I turn and walk out the door, shoes in hand, slow tears making their way down my expressionless face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uff I'm having such a challenging and awesome time working on this. 
> 
> Hope others here love characters from Anime/Manga thrown into the real world as much as I do.
> 
> More soon!
> 
> xKS


	4. Chapter 4

I depart the imposing office building in a daze. Bare feet hitting the sidewalk for a few vacant DC blocks before I have the faculty to pull on my shoes. I pass the lot where my car is parked. I'll collect it tomorrow, or whenever really. It doesn't matter.

It is a long and solemn walk home. By the time I finally amble up the concrete steps of my apartment building, my hands and face are numb from the cool night air. Once inside, I close my door and lean against it heavily, letting out a low sigh.

Bringing a cold hand up to rub at my neck, I look into the living room beyond. Warm light filters in from my small kitchen and I distinguish the outline of nested shapes on my bulky olive green sofa. Dropping my things and slipping off my shoes, I pad to the two sleeping forms.

Yara breathes evenly, encircled lightly by the sprawled lanky arms of Ian — is it? I shake him gently awake, his eyes blinking drowsily up at me as I tilt my head towards the door, communicating he needs to go.

He carefully extricates himself from Yara's side, hopping awkwardly on one foot to avoid rousing her.

I grab the faded denim jacket I assume is his and pass it to him on his way out. He slips it on, followed by his converse, leaving his heels to hang out as he exits through the front door I swing open.

In the hallway he turns to whisper, eyes avoiding mine nervously.

"We stayed up waiting for you and accidentally fell asleep. I didn't mean to stay," He swallows before adding, "Yara left some food in the fridge for you."

I nod at his explanation, lacking the energy or desire to chastise the gawky kid right now. He turns down the hall and I lock the door, dead bolt giving a soft thump.

Bottles and jars jingle softly when I open the fridge. As has become the norm in the last few months, it's overflowing with ingredients and the assorted cooking and baking products from Yara's experiments. I grab the pristine plate she left at eye level and rip the saran wrap off before grabbing a fork and going back out into the living room. I seat myself in the patterned armchair across from the dozing teenager who's made a home on my couch.

I eat quietly in the low light, feet propped on the coffee table, and gaze at the sweep of Yara's dark hair and slight sheen off her bronzed skin. So like my own. So like our dad's.

She looks so much like me and yet I barely know her. This half sister I'd never met until she showed up on my doorstep three months ago looking to escape her mother and the troublemaking group of friends she'd gotten caught up with.

I knew who she was of course, I'd even seen her from a distance once. My mom told me about dad's other family, the one he left us for. Although, the melodrama of it all seems acutely distant given the fact that neither he nor my mother lived long enough to see their children grown.

Yara stirs softly and rubs her eyes, squinting at me as she slowly becomes lucid.

"Sorry to disturb you, I'm going to bed when I'm done," I force some brightness into my voice and gesture to my plate with my fork "This risotto? It's brilliant."

She nods softly, angling to sit up.

"Why are you home so late — are you only just eating?"

I get the feeling, even without much light, she can tell my mood is off, but we're not quite at a place where she's comfortable asking me. I'm thankful for that small distance at the moment.

"Long day -- and I wanted to make sure I was free this weekend so we can visit your mom."

Yara pushes a pillow into her face and groans.

"I know, I know. But she's worried about you and it sounds like we should all have a chat."

Another groan.

"You can't avoid your life forever. I don't even know what's supposed to be going on with your classes. All you do is cavort in my kitchen and hang out with Ian. I'm too busy to look out for you"

"His name's Liam," she grumbles, avoiding the real subject of the conversation.

"He's never corrected me."

"That's because he's terrified of you."

"Good. He can't be here after nine pm."

"We're not doing anything you need to worry about,'' she whines, embarrassed.

"Yet. If I can avoid any and all involvement in a teenage pregnancy, I'll die a happy woman."

Yara just gives a final groan and turns her back to me, pulling her blanket to cover her face.

I scrape the last bit of food from my plate and drop it in the sink.

"Night kid. Thanks for the food," I say on my way to my room, dreading my own thoughts.

"Yeah," she mumbles dismissively.

\---

I wake gradually, soft morning light leaking between the slats of my blinds and highlighting dust particles that drift aimlessly throughout my messy bedroom.

Stretching slowly, I enjoy the smell of coffee and the muffled sounds of someone working over the stove sifting through my door. It's all lovely until I feel the heaviness in my eyes and in my head, leftovers from my unimaginable fuckup last night. What an unimaginable fuckup.

Not ready to unpack my emotional baggage quite yet, I peel my face from my pillow, one cheek lightly crusted with dried tears, to seek coffee.  
I walk out into the living room, rubbing my cheek clean and envisioning whatever delicious breakfast thing is sizzling in the kitchen. Yara's voice wakes me from my reverie.

"Your boss brought fruit."

I see Yara poking her head out from the kitchen.

"My boss brought fruit," I echo, voice hollow, squinting at Yara in sleepy confusion.

She nods to the occupied chair at the small table crowded by my overstuffed bookshelf. Griffith is there, sitting almost primly, a cup of coffee steaming in front of him.

"Fruit," I say again, looking questioningly, at the lean man in his warm brown sweater. Friend, boss, romantic tormentor; efficiently in one body and in my apartment. Wonderful.

"Fruit," Griffith says, a polite and contrite expression shading his features.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you don't mind the addition of an original character. I'm realizing, as I write, that I'm really enjoying filling out Casca's life. Giving her a real life. It's something that so satisfying and challenging given her lot in the Manga.
> 
> More soon!


End file.
